Seasons and Distinctions
by daisyink
Summary: In which Draco is sort of neurotic, but in a totally lovable way, Harry is exasperated and slightly confused, and Hermione is just along for the ride. HarryDraco, duh.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.  
A/N: _Yes_, another multi-chaptered fic. It will be an ongoing one, meaning it's sort of like a TV series, only a fic! (At least, that's what I'm planning). Hm. To AU, or not to AU? (I would like to thank skoosiepants for introducing me to this wonderful style of fic. I'm just having so much fun with this. xD)

_seasons; or, distinctions (and harry potter) suck_

Distinctions. Harry Potter. The smell of sandalwood and cinnamon. All of them were things that Draco liked. What bothered him, however, was not Harry or sandalwood or cinnamon. It was the bloody _season_. And not just any season, oh no, it was his favorite. Not making sense?

Well, he wasn't supposed to, was he; then it would just ruin his style.

It was spring, and Draco was pissed; but only in a vague, damn-I-wish-I-could-figure-this-out way. Like a thorn in his side, only in this case, it's more like a _pinprick_, really. Draco liked distinctions, and he liked Harry, but he had to say that this particular situation was all because of _them_; if Harry hadn't asked him what his favorite season was he'd never have gotten into the subject in the first place, and if it weren't for his liking of distinctions he wouldn't be obsessing over this. And so it was all. Their. Fault.

It all began on an innocent spring day: they were walking, and Draco was silent, and Harry was walking and silent. Out of the blue, Harry had asked, "What's your favorite season?" Draco had blinked, shook his head, and replied, "I have no bloody idea." Harry knew something was up, because Draco had somehow sounded bewildered and certain at the same time, and that was never a good sign.

Oh no, not at all.

Harry thought Draco must've forgotten about it, though, because he didn't mention it again for a good few weeks. But, right after he'd decided that there was no need to worry, Draco had burst into the library: eyes bright, cheeks pink, and running completely on caffeine.

"Harry, I have to ask you something about seasons."

Harry groaned, knowing what was coming next. "Dear Lord, it was just a sodding _question_! Why didn't I just keep my mouth shut?"

"Harry, don't be so crude," Draco admonished airily. Harry gritted his teeth. "Anyway, I just wanted to ask you what your favorite season is."

_I knew it_, Harry thought. "Why do you want to know?" he asked instead, this time genuinely curious. He never really understood why Draco put so much effort into these kinds of things, but it was interesting to hear about it.

"Well, you asked me that a few weeks ago, and it's stuck with me, I guess," Draco replied easily. He really looked as if he wanted to know, too, Harry thought. And what harm could it do, really, to just answer one simple question? Nothing.

"It's autumn, actually. My favorite season, that is." He replied, wondering in the back of his mind what Draco had planned this time.

"Oh really?" Draco looked surprised. "Why is that? And don't be skimpy on your answer either, Harry, I want the full details."

A sigh from Harry. "Is this really necessary, Draco?"

"Yes," the blond replied firmly. "It is very necessary, unless you want me to spend the rest of my life wondering why you chose autumn, and I will shrivel away and die and the only thing on my mind will be you and your stupid choices. Now. _Explain_."

_Drama queen, _Harry thought, and laughed. Draco shoved him, scowling in an effort to stifle the smile that was threatening to split his face. "Harry James Potter, whatever it was you were thinking about me, you had better stop it!" he threatened. His voice held no rancor, however, and Harry merely shrugged it off.

"Okay, I'll do what you say."

"Good." Draco smiled, satisfied. He settled back comfortably against his chair, his legs folded against him and head tilted slightly to the right in an inquiring pose. He seemed quite ready to listen.

"We _were _talking about me telling you why I like autumn, right? And not quitting thinking about whatever it was I was thinking about?" Harry smiled, knowing Draco probably wouldn't understand a word he had just said.

Draco scowled darkly. "I may not have any idea what you just said, but--you'd better quit thinking whatever it was you were thinking and _get on _with the explanation!"

Harry laughed, which earned him a smack from Draco. "Ow," he said with a straight face.

Draco pouted. "Well, that's what you get for trying to get me off the subject. Or maybe you weren't even trying, but I hope not, because that would make me seriously consider the level of your intelligence and you don't want me to do that."

Silence.

"Now who's going off-topic?" Draco threw a pillow at Harry's head, missing only by a few centimeters.

"Touchy."

Another pillow, and this time it hit its intended target. "Shut up."

Laughing, Harry half-heartedly threw the pillow at Draco's face; the pillow zoomed to the right, missing Draco by a good three feet. Draco blinked. "Why, Potter, you suck," he said with the air of someone commenting on the weather.

"That's because I wasn't trying."

Draco raised his eyebrow. "I wonder, where would that pillow have ended up if you actually _were _trying? Your face?"

Harry pouted mockingly at Draco. "You meanie."

"Hmph. This coming from the person who took my personal diary and read it aloud to everyone at their birthday party? You filthy hypocrite."

"Spare me," Harry snorted. "First of all, that diary was a fake because you and I both know you were expecting me to look for it; second of all, you said I could have _anything _I wanted for my birthday."

Draco shrugged, as if conceding defeat. "True. I _am _a genius, and I guess it's not your fault even your best efforts at outsmarting me come up short."

Harry grinned. Standing up, he walked over to Draco's side of the corner and sat down on the floor, making himself comfortable against his boyfriend's legs. "That's right, sweetie. I try to beat you and pretend to fail just at the last second, all for you."

Draco kicked him. "What did I tell you about the 's word', Harry?" he said threateningly.

"Sorry," Harry smiled cheekily.

"Prat." Draco huffed.

Harry leaned his face toward Draco's, craning his neck to be able to see him. "You know you love it."

"What are you two _doing_?"

Both of them turned, which was a pretty difficult feat: the two of them were tangled up like a pretzel.

Hermione looked at them, her expressions a cross between Merlin-what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this? And…wow-this-is-actually-kind-of-fun.

Harry and Draco grinned sheepishly.

_xx_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it.  
A/N: Full of crackalicious fun.XD

_xx_

"Uh…Hi Hermione," Harry tried to say cheerfully. It was a half-hearted attempt at ignoring the position he and Draco were in; after all, who could really ignore the two of them when they were so tangled up you couldn't tell where Harry ended and Draco began.

Fortunately, Hermione's had a lot of experience in these things.

"Harry, how did you two end up like this?"

Or not.

"It was the bloody season thing, that's what!" Draco half-snarled. He looked almost ready to kill.

Hermione didn't blink an eye, though inwardly she was laughing. Long and hard, with a lot of pointing at an imaginary Malfoy. Quite a lot of pointing, in fact, but she chose not to mention it.

She sighed instead. "So you've asked Harry yet another pointless question, haven't you?"

Harry looked surprised, and he momentarily stopped trying to untangle his limbs from Draco's. "How'd you know?"

Hermione snorted. "Every time he asks you, you try to avoid it with something completely random, and you two end up doing this. Or any other variations of it."

"Ha! Told you, Potter, you really _are _predictable."

"And what's that say for you?" Harry scowled darkly at Hermione. She shrugged helplessly in response.

"Anyway, you two have been doing this routinely for ages, and Ron and I always end up having to resolve it. And will you—just—stop—" she struggled to get in between the two warring boys, who were now starting to throw the various throw pillows in the library at each other. Quite a lot of the pillows missed and hit books instead. Ron was _not _going to be happy, and Hermione would normally have been furious, but she'd had them insured by a very useful new company she'd found (that incident, involving a disgruntled Ron, an amused Harry, and a squealing Hermione, is best not mentioned).

"Take this, Potter!" Draco yelled gleefully. The pillow he was wielding promptly smacked Harry in the face with a loud thwack, and there was silence in the room as the two stared at him in slight bemusement.

"Uh…Harry?" Hermione said.

"EURGH!"

Harry came out roaring, glasses askew and hair sticking up in every direction. "This," he ground out, "is war."

"Bring it on, four eyes," Draco taunted. Harry answered him with a pillow on his neatly combed blond head, mussing it up in every way possible.

Predictably, this particular move was not well received. The look in Draco's eyes would have been enough to send Voldemort running.

"You _do not _mess with the hair, POTTER!"

He was practically spitting at this point, and was grabbing every pillow he could get a hold of; Harry was doing the same. Poised for battle, the boys circled each other, eyes never leaving their faces.

Hermione then decided to find a nice, hidden, spot in the library, from which she could watch the spectacle safely. Luckily, this kind of thing happened relatively often, and it had given her experience in finding good spots. She chose a big, squishy armchair in the corner of the other side of the library, a bookcase partially hiding her from view.

She picked out a book, took off her shoes, and settled down to watch.

Smirking, she turned to the first page. This was going to be fun.

_xx_


End file.
